If You Could Read My Mind
by Rambling Scribe
Summary: Series 4 trilogy. Harry & Ruth. 'If you could read my mind love, what a tale my thoughts could tell.' Now complete.
1. Ghost from a wishing well

**Disclaimer – Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC. The title is borrowed as well.**

**First part of the Series 4 '**_**If you could read my mind**_**' trilogy. This is set between 4.3 and 4.4.**

**For Em. Belated Happy Birthday. xx**

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**Ghost From A Wishing Well**

_If you could read my mind love  
What a tale my thoughts could tell_

**Gordon Lightfoot **_  
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Harry is surprised to see the Grid's lights already on as he steps from one of the pods. Despite their propensity for long hours, he wasn't expecting any of his team to be working today. They were in a rare lull – still busy but not hellishly so – and he'd made it clear they should make the most of the opportunity to have an entire weekend to themselves. His gaze comes to rest on a familiar coat draped over the back of a chair. Apparently, he hadn't been as unambiguous as he'd thought and Ruth has applied her own interpretation to his entreaty, although at the moment, she is nowhere to be seen. He sighs, wearily, and crosses the floor to his office, vowing he'll try to persuade her to go home the minute she reappears.

Ten minutes of trawling through his inbox is enough to convince Harry he is in desperate need of caffeine. He traipses back across the Grid and, as he nears the poky kitchenette, he can hear the sound of running water.

"Which part of 'have a good weekend and try not to think about this place' did you not understand?" he asks, conversationally, as he enters the kitchen.

Ruth, clearly startled by his arrival, turns to face him, a delicate pink blush staining her cheeks. "I er, I thought I'd finish off a few things…seeing as it's quiet."

"Is that so?"

She nods. "Mm, just some paperwork and a couple of other bits and bobs."

Harry's gaze shifts from her face as something beside her catches his eye. In the sink is a plastic bucket, half-filled with flowers. There are more blooms on the draining board, awaiting attention.

"Secret admirer?" he quips, one eyebrow partially raised.

"Sorry?" she replies, momentarily puzzled by his question. "Oh, no. I-I'm going to the cemetery after I'm finished here. That's what the flowers are for."

Harry silently berates himself for his flippant remark as he realises what her intentions are. "Danny?"

Her head bobs up and down. "I haven't had a chance to go."

He can see so many emotions in her expression; grief, anger, guilt, and a weary acceptance that this is their lot in life. They don't get time to grieve; _she_ didn't get time to grieve despite his promise. They don't get time to love, either, and that is something that troubles him a great deal these days.

"They're from my garden," she announces, obviously feeling the need to say something. "I didn't see the point of buying flowers when I have my own." There is a defiant edge to her voice, daring him to argue, to accuse her of being a cheapskate. "I know they wouldn't win any prizes but that's not the point."

"I think it's a lovely idea. Something you've nurtured, something you've given love and attention. I also think they're very beautiful, all of them."

She shuffles about, embarrassed by his comments, before returning to the task of sorting out the flowers. "I should finish this," she mumbles, briefly glancing over her shoulder at him.

"OK." He pauses. "I was going to make a coffee. Do you want one? Or would you prefer tea?"

"Um, tea, please," she replies, without looking at him.

"I, ah, I need to…" He holds the kettle up, waiting for Ruth to acknowledge him.

"Oh, sorry." She moves to one side to allow him to get to the sink. "Anyway, it's not just me who didn't take your advice," she remarks as he turns the tap on. "About enjoying the weekend."

Harry smiles, ruefully. "True. But I'm the boss."

"Even so, there must be things you'd rather be doing," she comments, an insistent note in her voice.

"Right now, Ruth, I'm perfectly happy where I am."

She slowly digests his words, unsure how to interpret them or whether he's expecting a reply. Deciding silence is her best option, she moves back to the sink.

Surprised by his own admission, Harry also chooses to stay quiet and contents himself with watching her as she carefully sorts through the flowers. It's a typically Ruth selection. Delicate purple asters; white carnations with crimson edged petals; slightly wind blown delphiniums that are beginning to droop; pale yellow chrysanthemums and bright red freesias. He picks one up, inhaling the familiar scent.

"My mother loved freesias. I used to buy her some when I could. Although," he adds, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "she always thought I'd been up to something when I came home with them."

"And had you?" Ruth asks, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

"Sometimes," he says, amused by her question, "and sometimes not."

-x-

They have retreated to their desks, both pretending to be dealing with the tasks they have ostensibly come into the office to complete but each distracted by the other's presence. Ruth raises her head just enough so that she can discreetly look into Harry's office. He has his phone pressed to his ear and is rummaging through his desk drawer. She continues to watch him until curiosity gets the better of her.

She lightly taps on the doorframe before walking into his office. "Is something wrong, Harry?" she asks, when he has finally completed his call.

"The DG's in. Sod's law. The day I turn up without a tie, the old bugger demands to see me." Harry opens another drawer. "I thought I had a spare one in here."

"Can't you go as you are?"

He stops, mid-search, and looks at her. She's right, of course, but he can't quite shake off the irrational thought that he won't feel properly dressed for his meeting if he isn't wearing a tie. But this is not a fear he's about to share with Ruth.

"You know how it is," he states, vaguely, resuming the hunt for the elusive neckwear. "The DG gets a bit sniffy about that sort of thing."

Ruth frowns; she is certain that the DG probably couldn't care less about what Harry is wearing but she keeps the thought to herself. She turns on her heel and leaves his office muttering something about the forgery suite.

When she comes back a few minutes later, she's carrying three ties. "One of these should be suitable," she says, holding the items out for inspection.

"Which do you think?" Harry asks.

She blushes a little, thrown by his question. "Um, well…maybe the black one? N-no. Too funereal." Overcoming her usual reticence, she moves closer to him. "This one, I think." She holds up a blue and grey striped tie, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

"Perfect," he replies, and takes the tie from her. There is a moment, an all too brief moment, when their fingers touch and both of them entertain the idea of voicing certain thoughts that are usually kept safely locked away.

"I-I should…get back to, ah, what I was…" Ruth stammers, looking everywhere but at Harry.

"Hang on a minute." His hands work nimbly as he does the tie up. "Will I do?" he asks, quietly, folding the collar of his shirt back down.

Ruth is fully aware of the context of the question but she still has to think carefully how to word her response. "I'm sure you'll meet with the DG's approval," she says, smiling.

"I'll take your word for it," he answers, dryly.

-x-

The Grid is in darkness when Harry returns and it seems remarkably empty without Ruth. The prospect of spending a little more time alone with her had kept him going through his longer than expected meeting and her absence provokes a familiar emotional response. He's almost ready to admit to himself that it's no longer just her company he desires. Almost ready.

He wanders slowly back into his office, the overhead lights flickering on as the motion detectors sense his movements. He's halfway across the floor when he spots something on his desk; a tall, glass tumbler, half filled with water, a crimson red freesia standing proudly in it. When he's within reach, he lifts his hand and lets the petals lightly brush over the back of his index finger. As the velvety softness caresses his skin, he smiles. The thoughtfulness of her gesture is deeply touching and the idea of thanking her in person, irresistible.

He knows she was intending to visit the cemetery and reasons she will go there first. He checks his watch. Depending when she left and, assuming she went by public transport, she might still be there. It takes just a few minutes to go back through the CCTV to find her departure time. For a moment he wonders if it is right to follow her; she may want to be on her own, but he'll take a chance that she'll be glad of company; specifically, _his_ company.

-x-

Harry finds a parking space close to the cemetery gates and he takes this as a sign he's doing the right thing, although fate, as an abstract concept, is not something he truly believes in. He's all too aware that people have the ability to make choices that influence the paths their lives take; to decide whether to be selfish or selfless. The Service is littered with plenty of examples of both. Danny made a choice and it led to the ultimate sacrifice.

The gravel path crunches under his feet and he realises he isn't entirely sure where Danny's grave is. He stops by a plan of the cemetery and studies it for a few moments. He knows the plot number, he always remembers them – a rather macabre talent, he thinks. Once he is certain where he's going, he starts walking again.

A simple wooden cross with a small brass plaque marks the grave. Ruth's flowers have been carefully arranged in two small stone jars but she's not there. Harry looks around to see if she's close by and spots a small figure sitting on a bench a couple of hundred yards away. He watches as she wipes her eyes, and wonders if he should go and comfort her. He waits for a few minutes, giving her time to gather her composure, and turns his attention back to the grave. There are other flowers, including a pot that contains some bright orange dahlias. The vibrant mix of colours are a fitting celebration of a life.

He wanders slowly along the path towards Ruth and sits down beside her.

"If you want me to leave, just say so," he offers, by way of greeting.

She shakes her head. "No. It's fine. I'm glad you're here," she adds, quietly.

He doesn't have an answer to that, at least, not one that won't lead to a difficult conversation.

"I'm sorry," he eventually says, breaking the silence that shrouds them. "For making a promise I couldn't keep."

"You mean after…" She stops, unable to say it.

"Yes." He turns to look at her. "I'm not sure it was my promise to make."

"Perhaps not." She smiles at him; a beautiful, serene smile that make his heart ache. "But you meant it, that was the most important thing. And you kept us going, Harry. Without you…" She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. "Without you, we would never have got Fiona back."

He looks away, embarrassed.

"It's true." Her fingers rest lightly on his arm and he finds his gaze drawn back to her. "You helped us to focus on what was important, at that moment."

"I wish I'd done more," he replies, his voice thick with emotion. "I _should_ have done more."

She squeezes his arm. "We did all that we could, Harry. _All_ of us."

He lets himself take solace in her words but feels guilty. _He_ should be the one comforting _her._

"Harry?"

"I can't help thinking…" He hesitates. "Another life cut short."

There was a time when Ruth would have been surprised by this kind of admission from Harry but not any more.

"And the real reasons for it known only to a handful of people," she says, thoughtfully.

Harry nods. "What's that Shakespeare quote? _The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones_."

"Rather fitting for our line of work," she comments, wryly.

They remain sitting together, in silence, until Ruth announces that it's time for her to go home.

"I can drive you."

She considers refusing his offer but decides she's not ready to say goodbye to him just yet.

"OK, thank you," she smiles.

-x-

Scarlett greets Harry excitedly when he opens the front door.

"Hello girl," he says, patting the dog affectionately. "I know I've been a while and you want a walk but I need to sort these out first."

He lays the newspaper-wrapped bundle he's carrying onto the kitchen worktop and takes his coat off. A thought strikes him as he slips his feet out of his shoes and he heads into the sitting room.

Returning to the kitchen, he carefully rinses out the vase he'd retrieved from the top of the bookshelf and fills it with water. It belonged to his mother and is, he thinks, very fitting for the flowers that Ruth gave him. When he's finished arranging them, he places the vase in the centre of the kitchen table. The scent of the freesias is already beginning to fill the room, and he smiles.

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Thanks for reading. :)  
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	2. In a Castle Dark

**Disclaimer - Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.**

**A/N - This is the second part of the S4 trilogy and is set during 4.5. Dialogue from the opening scene is borrowed from the ep. This part turned out longer than anticipated but ****that happens ****sometimes. There's a vague reference to another of my fics. Well done if you spot it. Oh, I didn't intend for there to be such a long gap between posting part 1 and part 2 but sometimes that happens as well...**

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**_If I could read your mind, love_

_What a tale your thoughts could tell._

_**Gordon Lightfoot**_

-x-x-x-

Ruth knocks lightly on the half-opened door of Harry's office and steps quickly across the threshold. "I'm off, " she announces, softly.

"I take it your friend is behaving?" he asks, a trace of distaste evident in his voice.

"Er, Zaf's babysitting him. I think he's got things under control."

"How did you ever get mixed up with someone like Hicks?"

The question catches Ruth slightly off guard.

"He wasn't always like that. He used to write the most brilliantly incisive pieces about just about anything. He wrote a piece about Kosovo." She stops, momentarily lost in a memory. "He cared." She takes a breath. "And then he realised people were more interested in finding out who Sven Goran Ericksson was scrumping that week."

A faint smile flickers across Harry's face and she seizes the moment to ask him the question that has been troubling her.

"Harry, do you really think we should be doing this?"

"What?"

Nervousness makes her throat constrict but she forces herself to speak. "These people, they're obviously willing to do whatever it takes to suppress it."

"Someone's got to draw the line somewhere."

He hasn't raised his voice but it carries a tone that doesn't invite argument.

"I-I understand that," she continues, clinging on to the courage she has found to challenge him. "I know Clive was your friend and you can't let his murder go unanswered but-"

"It isn't just about Clive's murder…or about the book," he replies, softly.

"Hicks chose me; he turned up on my doorstep and there's nothing we can do about that." She pauses, frightened by what she's thinking, by what she's about to say. "You can't really think they're going…"

"You call me, when you get to the safe house."

"Right."

Harry watches Ruth leave his office, worry gnawing at his insides. Not for the first time today, he wonders if he is risking other peoples lives for something that he alone believes in.

-x-

Quashing the urge to hurry, Ruth walks down the steps of Thames House at an even pace. She wraps her scarf more securely around her neck and glances around, mentally noting who is in the vicinity. As she rounds the corner into Horseferry Road, a gust of wind blows a stinging mixture of sleet and snow into her face. She hurries towards the bus stop, relieved to see a number of people are already there. No one appears to be out of place but she continues to monitor her fellow travellers, discreetly scrutinising each new arrival.

The line of weary commuters becomes more animated and Ruth looks up the road towards Lambeth Bridge. She is pleased to see _two_ buses approaching. The crowd surges forward, all pretence at queuing abandoned, as the vehicles come to a stop. Ruth allows herself to be briefly caught up in the group heading towards the second bus but then breaks away, and darts across the road.

She walks quickly, heading towards the dark outline of St John's. Smith Square is almost deserted and the dim street lighting does nothing to ease her nerves. She keeps going, sticking to the side streets, slowing only as she nears the entrance to Westminster School. The gate is locked but the key Malcolm provided works perfectly and the well-oiled mechanism operates with barely a sound. She slips quickly through the gate, relocks it and places the key back in her bag as she crosses the small green at the rear of the school. Exiting Dean's Yard, she picks up her pace again and heads towards Westminster tube.

-x-

Harry's gaze drifts away from the report in front of him and settles on the time display on his computer. Forty-nine minutes since Ruth left for the safe-house. She'd given him a small wave and a smile before she stepped into the pods but he'd known she was scared, he could tell from her body language. She was doing a good job of hiding it but _he'd _seen it.

The thought brings him up short and he wonders when he became so perceptive about Ruth's state of mind. And then he decides this is not the time to start exploring that aspect of his psyche. The situation is complicated enough without delving into his feelings for Ruth; and he does have feelings for her. He forces his attention back to the report he's supposed to be reading.

It's a hopeless endeavour. He gets up from his desk, retrieves the bottle of whisky from the shelf behind him and pours himself a generous measure. He sips it, slowly, and paces around his office. He checks the time again; fifty-six minutes since Ruth left. He turns and looks out across the Grid, his eyes coming to rest on an empty desk.

-x-

The train is crowded but Ruth has managed to find a seat close to the doors. She holds a book in her hands, occasionally turning a page to give the appearance that she is reading but her mind is filled with her conversation with Harry. _Conversations_. Her brain flits between their phone call of just over twenty-four hours ago and the short exchange in his office, picking apart every sentence, analysing every nuance.

She still doesn't know what to make of their rather awkward telephone conversation. Her mind had fallen into disarray once she'd realised Harry's thought process was going in entirely the wrong direction. Wrong but not unwelcome. That notion had lodged itself in her brain, alongside the observation that Harry had been disappointed when she'd finally explained her real reason for calling him. The two things are related, which is why her analytical mind had filed them together. And that in itself is another interesting, and mildly unsettling, idea.

Something is happening between them although Ruth can recognise there's a certain reticence on her part to fully acknowledge it. Not that she's entirely sure what the 'something' is. All she does know is that this evening's conversation has provided further proof of a shift in their relationship. She could dismiss his concern for her as purely professional – a manager worried about a member of his team – but her heart is telling her it's more than that; more deep-seated.

Her desire to follow her heart, to test the logic of her feelings, is tempered by fear and self-doubt. The fear is born partly out of the situation with Hicks but also from what she might discover about herself, and Harry. And that in turn feeds the self-doubt. After all, she's not had a lot of luck with men over the years. Ruth is momentarily shocked. Her brain has already taken the next step and associated Harry with romance. Maybe she _is_ beginning to acknowledge her feelings.

Movement beside her brings Ruth's attention back to her surroundings. A brief moment of panic is quickly suppressed. She's still on course but she needs to focus her attention on the here and now.

-x-

Harry has abandoned the pile of reports in his office and is prowling around the empty Grid. He stops by Ruth's desk. No paperwork has been left out, as per the rules, but there are several pens scattered across the surface in defiance of a grey plastic desk tidy. He pulls out the chair and sits down. He doesn't touch anything; despite the haphazard appearance, he's certain Ruth knows the exact position of every biro, note and paperclip. The thought amuses him.

He peers at a half-folded piece of paper peeking out from underneath the keyboard. He can only make out some of the writing on it: '_get_ _ring'_. His brow furrows and his fingers hover over the note for a moment before he starts to draw it from its hiding place. He shouldn't really be doing this but she'll never know. This is basic tradecraft, after all. He's careful to pull the paper out only far enough to be able to read it. His eyes scan over her familiar scrawl: _Fidget: ring Alice?_

Now he understands. Fidget is her cat and Alice is…a friend? No, a neighbour. He'd met her, briefly, the day he'd driven Ruth home after she'd taken flowers to Danny's grave. He's lost for a moment, recalling that bright but chilly autumn Saturday. They'd said little as he drove them through the weekend traffic, both content with each other's company, and both deep in thought. He'd known then he was starting to admit to himself just how far into his heart she had got. Further and deeper than anyone had been in a long time, perhaps ever. And he'd been scared by it; so petrified he had pushed the feelings away, hoping ignoring them would make them fade but it hadn't worked.

Harry lightly runs a finger over the words on the paper. He feels guilty about the cat; in their hurry to get Ruth out of her home and to the safe-house, he'd not given the poor creature a thought. But neither it seemed had she, or, if she had, she hadn't felt able to mention it. He resolves to ask her when she rings him. He checks his watch; seventy-eight minutes since she left.

-x-

Ruth briefly glances over her shoulder as the taxi slows to a halt. There are no vehicles behind them but she still wants to get indoors as quickly as possible. She hands the driver the ten pound note she's been clutching since she got in the cab and tells him to keep the change. Another quick look around as she hurries towards the safe-house reassures her she's not been followed.

She presses the doorbell twice, in quick succession, then once more, letting her finger rest on it for a couple of seconds. It's a simple code and means she's there alone, everything is OK, no one is hiding in the shadows. Later, she'll find out someone _had_ been hiding in the shadows for quite a while but, this time, they were friend, not foe.

As she enters the flat, Ruth greets the dark-haired officer borrowed from Section A to assist with babysitting Hicks.

"Evening Nick, everything OK?"

"Fine, all quiet. Our houseguest has stopped whinging for the moment," he replies, giving her a friendly smile.

"Thank God for small mercies," she comments, shrugging her coat from her shoulders. "Is Zaf here?"

"Yep. He's in the kitchen, organising dinner."

"Really?" Ruth answers, grinning widely. "This I have to see."

She finds her colleague looking remarkably relaxed and with no obvious sign of food preparation taking place.

"I thought you were making dinner."

Zaf turns at the sound of her voice. "And good evening to you too, Ruth."

"Sorry," she offers, trying to look contrite. "It's just that Nick said you were organising dinner."

"Organising, yes; cooking, no. Sorry to shatter your fantasy of me in a pinny, chopping vegetables." He winks at her. "Another time perhaps?"

Ruth laughs. "Only in your dreams."

He sighs, dramatically, and places his hands against his chest. "Oh Ruth! I'm heartbroken."

She shakes her head at him but is smiling. "Enough of the am-dram, Zafar. What are we having to eat? I'm starving."

"I thought we'd have a takeaway; might as well make use of the Chinese around the corner." In response to Ruth's concerned look, Zaf continues "it's not a problem, I've got an asset in there."

"Oh, right. Pretty is she?"

He feigns indignation. "Why does everyone always assume my assets are female?"

"Because they usually are."

"It's my dazzling charm, Ruth. No woman can resist."

"Of course. How silly of me to think otherwise," she replies, a serious tone to her voice. "I'll leave you to charm your asset. I just need to…" She waves vaguely towards the hall.

"Sure. Dinner will be about half an hour."

Ruth retreats to the room she's using - the master bedroom with the en suite. As soon as they'd arrived, Adam had suggested she take it, remarking that he was sure she'd appreciate the privacy. She'd been grateful for his tact. She sits on the bed and pulls her phone from her bag, noting with some surprise that her hands are trembling.

She presses speed-dial and waits for Harry to pick up.

"It's me, Ruth," she gabbles when he answers. "You said to ring as soon as I got to the safe house."

"Is everything all right, Ruth? You sound a bit…flustered."

She knows from the question and the unmistakeable concern in his voice that she needs to take a breath, calm down. It's only a phone conversation with Harry. Her mind involuntarily jumps back to their last telephone call. _Shit_. She swears under her breath but not quietly enough.

"Ruth? Is something wrong?"

Harry can feel the familiar surge of adrenalin, mixed with a large dose of dread, as he waits for her answer.

"No, no. Nothing's wrong. Sorry." She gives a weak laugh. "I nearly dropped my phone," she adds, wishing she could think of a better explanation for her strange behaviour.

"Oh right, I see." The relief in his voice is palpable, and Ruth's mind sees fit to add this piece of information to the file marked _'Proof of Harry's feelings'_.

She makes herself focus on what she needs to say.

"I'm fine, I'm at the safe house. Everything is as it should be."

She doesn't give him a chance to reply, instead, rattling on, telling him about her convoluted journey that evening.

Harry is happy to listen to her, grateful she is safe, shocked at how quickly the fear had built inside him during those few moments he'd thought she was in danger. He realises she's gone quiet, waiting for him to say something.

"An uneventful journey, just the type we like," he comments, at a loss for more intelligent conversation.

"Yes."

Ruth is also struggling to find something meaningful to say.

"You're sure you're…everything is all right? It's not that I doubt you," he continues, hurriedly, "it's…I…"

"I'm fine, really, Harry."

There is a softness to her voice, a gentle reassurance.

"Good," he replies, calmer, more certain of himself, his feelings.

There is a moment or two of silence and then he hears her small intake of breath; she's getting ready to ask him something.

"There was just one thing, Harry. Er, I know it's a bit silly but…my cat. W-we left in such a hurry…I should have thought about him at the time."

"Of course. Fidget, that's his name, isn't it?"

She gives a slight laugh. "Yes, yes, that's right."

He knows she's embarrassed; he remembers the light blush that had spread across her face when she'd first told him what the cat was called.

She cuts across his train of thought. "I was going to ask my neighbour to feed him but it would be a bit awkward. I've managed to avoid letting her have a spare key. I mean, Alice is nice enough but she's a bit…"

"Inquisitive." Harry completes the sentence for her. "Yes, I noticed that. She'd have buttonholed me that Saturday I met her if I hadn't made such a swift exit," he chuckles. "The sweet old lady act didn't fool me for a moment. She's sharp as a tack."

"She is. So," Ruth asks, tentatively, "what about Fidget? I'd left him some food but I expect it's all gone now."

"I'll do it." The words fall out of Harry's mouth before he's even had a chance to think through the practicalities, or the potential dangers.

"You…"

"Yes, me. Well, if you don't mind," he adds, wondering if she's not keen about him being in her house on his own.

"But you haven't got any keys."

"You've a set lodged with HR haven't you?"

"Yes, but Harry, it's nearly eight o'clock; all the HR staff will have gone home."

"Not a problem. The Duty Officer can get them."

Ruth considers telling him not to bother, that she'll phone her neighbour and get her to take the cat in, temporarily, but Harry doesn't give her the opportunity.

"Right, that's settled then. Leave it with me, Ruth."

She explains where to find the cat food, questions him again as to whether he's sure he doesn't mind feeding Fidget and finally, nervously, asks him to be careful.

"I'll be fine, Ruth, don't worry. I'll ring you later, to let you know everything is OK."

It's an interesting reversal of their earlier conversation, and one that Harry will find himself pondering in the small hours of the morning.

-x-

Ruth's cat stands in the kitchen doorway, watching Harry as he fills its food bowl. It creeps forward a few steps, still undecided as to whether this unexpected visitor is friend or foe.

"Come on, Fidget, you remember me don't you?" Harry says, putting the bowl on the floor. "Come and have something to eat." He busies himself with tidying up and when he looks round again, Fidget is tucking into the food.

"Good moggy," he says, and can't help smiling when the cat looks up at him and miaows. "Like me now, don't you? Now I've fed you."

The comment brings back a memory, a snippet of a conversation he'd had with Ruth, in _The George_, not long after she'd joined Section D. He shakes his head; it seems all his conversations with Ruth are safely stored away in some part of his brain.

He's still contemplating this when his phone rings. It's Adam, and something in the younger man's voice immediately puts Harry on alert.

"What's happened?"

The reply is drowned out by a police siren and raised voices in the background.

"Adam? Adam? What the hell's going on?"

He finds himself having to grip the kitchen worktop for support as his section chief explains, as calmly as he can, that there has been a shooting at the safe house where Hicks and Ruth are staying. Harry fights down the nausea and the panic, willing himself to listen carefully to everything he's being told.

Once the call has ended, Harry leans over the kitchen sink, chest heaving, stomach churning. The feeling abates, and he splashes his face with cold water. _Bloody Hicks. Bloody Hicks and bloody Clive_. Paradoxically, the anger he now feels at the journalist and at his friend helps him gain his equilibrium. He takes a couple of deep breaths and looks down at the cat, suddenly aware it's stopped eating and is watching him.

"She's OK, Fidget. Ruth's OK."

-x-

Harry takes a sip of whiskey and looks out across the Grid. It is ridiculously late, or ridiculously early, depending on your point of view, but Ruth, Adam and Zaf are sitting at their desks, tapping away at their keyboards. They all have a tumbler of his finest single malt in front of them. _For medicinal purposes_, he'd said, handing out the glasses.

His gaze settles on Ruth and he feels his heart turn over just as it had when she'd walked back onto the Grid. He'd been longing to see her ever since Adam had told him about the shooting, and, just as it had taken all of his willpower not to rush straight to the safe house, he'd also had to fight the urge to gather her into his arms the moment she stepped out of the pods. The relief he'd felt at seeing her, relatively unscathed, had been overwhelming and he realises he didn't hide it. Where once he would have worried about that, now he feels untroubled by it, glad even. He knows she saw his reaction; she may not have consciously acknowledged it but it will be there, filed away in that brilliant, intriguing mind of hers, waiting to surface at some point. He's hoping it won't take too long.

Something compels Ruth to look up from her workstation; her eyes meet Harry's and she gives him a quick smile before looking away. She refocuses on the screen in front of her but her fingers are motionless, resting on the keyboard. Her brain is sifting through the evening's events, analysing and interpreting everything she's seen, everything that's happened. It comes to a stop at a specific image; not the look on Zaf's face when he'd first realised something was wrong; not the fear in Hicks' eyes as they'd bundled him out of the safe house. It's the image of Harry, standing by her desk, waiting for them, waiting for _her_.

She lets her gaze drift slowly back to Harry's office. He's still watching, still waiting. Her skin tingles. Her brain adds the information to the file marked _'Proof of Harry's feelings'_.

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Thanks for reading. :)  
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	3. A Fortress Strong

**Disclaimer – Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.**

**A/N – Third and final part of this trilogy. Set a few days after the end of 4.5. NB: The epilogue has spoilers for 5.5. **

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**_When you reach the part where the heartaches come _

_The hero would be me._

_**Gordon Lightfoot**_

-x-

After the fourth circuit of her house, Ruth knows she needs to stop. Every window is secure, and the front and back doors are locked. _Nobody is getting in_ she reassures herself. _Time for a cup of tea, then a bath and bed_.

She eyes the long bladed letter opener lying on the shelf in the hall as she passes. It could do a serious amount of damage to an assailant if wielded correctly, not that that is the reason it's there. Ruth stops, turns around and picks it up; it could also do _her_ a serious amount of damage. _Nothing like giving an intruder a free offensive weapon_ she mutters to herself as she continues into the kitchen.

She puts the letter opener in a drawer, picks up the kettle and walks over to the sink. The cold water sounds louder than usual as it gushes from the tap and when she shuts the flow off, the kitchen is rendered eerily silent. Ruth fights the urge to do another check of every lock and bolt in the house, willing herself to keep her overactive imagination under control. _Gary Hicks is not lurking in the front garden waiting to pounce the moment I open the door _she reminds herself. _There are no armed men attempting to break in._ She switches the kettle on and busies herself with deciding which packet of biscuits to open.

-x-

Harry sits in his car, silently debating whether he should be here. He knows he's been parked long enough to have be seen by at least one of Ruth's neighbours, who'd spent an inordinate amount of time putting a bag of rubbish in their dustbin. Whether Ruth has spotted him is debateable; he's a couple of doors along from her house, tucked in behind a mud splattered Land Rover. The incongruity of the vehicle's condition in comparison with its surroundings rang alarm bells until he spotted the stickers just visible in the rear window inviting fellow motorists to '_Slow down for horses!_'. Not that those are enough to stop him running the registration number through the system – that would go against his old spy senses.

And his old spy senses are telling him to stop being an idiot and go and see Ruth. It's not yet ten o'clock so not _too_ late to be calling on her. Plus the house isn't in darkness, implying she's not gone to bed so he won't be waking her. His mind fills with the image of a tousled-haired, nightwear clad Ruth opening the front door and inviting him in. It's a deliciously appealing fantasy but he pushes it from his mind.

He feels ashamed sometimes of the thoughts he has about her, the things he imagines doing with her. And whilst he understands these thoughts are quite natural, born out of his desire for her, his feelings for her, he's grateful she can't read his mind. Occasionally though, he wonders whether she _does_ possess such a gift. He hopes not, for her sake as well as his own.

A car passes slowly from the opposite direction, its headlights illuminating him. Knowing his presence has now been clearly revealed, he quickly decides on his next move.

-x-

When the kettle has boiled, Ruth drops a teabag into a mug and adds the steaming water. The ring of the doorbell makes her jump and tea slops onto the worktop. She remains fixed to the spot, barely breathing. The second ring is longer; her visitor is getting impatient. Ruth looks at the phone on the wall and wonders whether she can make it across the kitchen without being seen by the person at her front door.

The third ring of the bell is accompanied by a familiar voice calling 'hello'.

She swears, profusely, then replies: "Just a moment!"

Ruth is neither tousled-haired or in her nightwear when she opens the door but instead looks rather annoyed. This is not a reaction Harry had factored into his plan so he's left momentarily tongue-tied.

"Hi," he eventually says.

"Harry." She looks at him, expectantly.

"I, um, I thought I'd just pop round to make sure you're OK. And to give you this," he continues, when she doesn't reply.

Ruth takes the proffered item, a paper wrapped bottle, and looks at it, confusion evident on her face.

"Seeing as I finished your whisky the last time I was here, the least I can do is replace it."

Her gaze moves from the bottle to Harry's face. "You've turned up on my doorstep at ten o'clock at night to bring me a bottle of whisky?"

"And to see if you're all right."

"You didn't have to do that."

He's tempted to ask 'which part?' but shrugs off his curiosity with a slight upward movement of his shoulders.

"I wanted to."

The night air suddenly feels less cold as a familiar warmth envelops them. Nerve-ends jangle again, but with a different kind of anticipation.

She invites him in, offers him tea. He accepts.

He stands in the kitchen doorway looking slightly lost.

"You can take your coat off if you want," Ruth comments, amused, and intrigued, by his demeanour.

Harry does as she suggests, hangs his overcoat up in the hallway and returns to the kitchen, this time making it over the threshold. Ruth is busy unwrapping his alcoholic gift.

"This is a _very_ good single malt," she says, scrunching up the tissue paper that had hidden the whisky's provenance. "Far better than the stuff you got on your last visit. You really shouldn't have."

"I told you, I wanted to." He smiles in his familiar lop-sided way. "And to make sure you're OK."

_He really does care_.

The thought places itself inconveniently, and unexpectedly, at the forefront of Ruth's mind and some effort is required to stop it leaving her mouth. She takes a breath and manages a more appropriate response.

"Thanks."

There is silence for a while as she makes his tea.

"We could have a drop if you want." She nods towards the whisky. "Call it a nightcap."

"You don't have to open it on my account."

"I want to," she replies, challenging him with his own words.

He gives in, graciously. "Then who am I to argue?"

Ruth knows he's watching her as she rummages in one of the wall cupboards, seeking out her best whisky glasses, which she knows are there _somewhere_. She finally locates them but not without having to stand on tiptoe to reach the back of the cabinet. The action makes her feel vulnerable, exposed almost, and she keeps one hand on the edge of the worktop, gripping it firmly to maintain her balance.

Harry realises he's staring at Ruth. In particular, he's staring at the small of her back. As she stretches to reach into the cupboard, her top rides up, giving him tantalising glimpses of bare skin. Guilt vies with arousal, propriety with desire; it's an age-old battle he's fought a number of times. He moves towards her.

"Let me," he offers, propriety winning out, on this occasion at least.

She steps aside to allow him to retrieve the glasses. As he sets them down on the worktop, she opens the whisky and tries to gauge what has happened in the last few moments. Or what nearly happened.

"Not too much, I'm driving," Harry cautions, as Ruth pours their drinks.

"Cheers," he says, touching his glass against hers.

"Thank you."

He raises an eyebrow and she knows what he's asking. They spend a lot of their time speaking in code. And not speaking.

_For the whisky, for being here, for caring, for… _

"Everything," she says, softly.

He smiles, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. "Anytime."

Ruth savours his reply, letting the single word shuttle around her brain as she considers how best to interpret it. She's still dwelling on possible meanings when Harry speaks again.

"You're sure you've fully recovered from the last few days?"

She takes a moment to consider his question.

"Yes, I think so," she replies, with less certainty than she'd intended. "I'm fine, really, just a bit tired," she adds, hoping to deflect any concerns he may have. It seems to work.

"Zaf said you were very calm, very cool under pressure," Harry casually remarks.

Ruth blushes, surprised. "Did he?"

"Yes. He said you were _ace_." There's a hint of distaste in Harry's voice that he doesn't quite manage to suppress.

"_Cool_ and _ace_? That must have been an interesting conversation," Ruth says, unable to hide her amusement.

"Very interesting." He takes a sip of his whisky and something changes in his expression. "You said you were tired. You're not sleeping properly are you?"

She's surprised again, and then wonders why. This is Harry's forte, after all.

"I'm…" She stops, aware she doesn't want to lie. Not to him. "No, I've not had much sleep. What with Gary turning up on my doorstep, out of the blue, then going to the safe house." She gives him a weak smile. "I'm not used to living cheek by jowl with several men."

"So even Zafar's legendary charm gets a bit wearing does it?"

For a moment she thinks he's jealous but then she realises what he's doing.

"Poor Zaf. H-he's a good man, Harry. A good officer. He knew, instinctively, that something was very wrong when the car alarms went off. He_ knew._"

Harry remains silent but his eyes never leave Ruth.

"It was the noise…the gunshots." She takes a mouthful of her drink, coughs as it burns the back of her throat. "I-I've been on a firing range but this… No one tells you what it's like. Being in a confined space, in the dark. The noise. The flashes of light. And not knowing if…"

Her hands are trembling and the heavy tumbler starts to slide from her grip. Harry moves quickly, catching the glass just as it slips from her fingers and placing it on the worktop. Ruth isn't aware of his actions; she's caught up in the memory of that evening.

He gently grasps the tops of her arms, pulling her towards him. "It's all right, Ruth. It's all over now. You're safe."

She reaches out to him, her hands settling on his chest, her fingers twisting into the lapels of his jacket.

"I'm here and you're safe," he repeats, softly.

His words begin to permeate her fear, diluting it, and she concentrates on his voice, listening to him comforting her, soothing her.

Loving her.

She can't look at his face, not yet; she doesn't know how she'll react, what she might do. She focuses on one of the buttons on his shirt; the thread holding it to the material is starting to unravel. _Like me_, she thinks.

"I was so scared, Harry. I thought I was going to die." She exhales, raggedly. "You must think that's pathetic."

"No I don't, Ruth," he reassures, but her gaze remains resolutely fixed on his chest. "Ruth."

Slowly, she raises her head and looks him in the eye.

"If you're not scared of dying then you can't have anything to live for, can you?"

There's an undeniable truth in his words, and a tenderness.

"You have something to live for, don't you?" he continues, gently. "I know I do."

Ruth nods and gives him a brief smile.

Harry is content, for now. She has spoken of that evening in the safe house and confessed her fears; he has listened and, he hopes, comforted her. And they have taken a step nearer to each other.

They are both quiet for some time, still standing close together, still touching, albeit chastely. Gradually, Ruth becomes aware of the warmth of Harry's hands on her arms, and the unmistakeable look in his eyes. She knows it would be easy to fall into his embrace, succumb to the temptation of kissing him, but self-doubt holds her back once again.

"You're going to lose a button soon," she runs her finger gently over the small plastic disc, grateful for the distraction. "The thread is coming undone."

"I'll have to fix it then, won't I?" Harry replies, unwilling to let the spell be broken.

She looks sceptical.

"I am capable of sewing a button on my shirt." He pauses for a moment. "I'm capable of lots of things."

"Yes, Harry, I believe you are."

They're speaking in code again.

-x-

Harry declines Ruth's offer of another whisky but accepts a fresh cup of tea. He watches her as she pours more of the single malt into her own glass.

"Don't drink it all at once. It is good stuff but it'll still give you a hangover," he remarks, the good humoured tone not quite hiding his concern.

"I know. This is my last one. To help me sleep," she explains as she hands him his tea.

Harry contemplates telling her that alcohol isn't the answer but he knows Ruth will see the hypocrisy in his words. He's spent enough evenings drowning his sorrows, and his grief, and he's certain she knows he has. A different approach is needed.

"You'll be all right, Ruth. The memories will fade, eventually, if you let them. Try not to keep analysing what happened." He laughs, gently. "And yes, I do appreciate the irony of telling an analyst that."

"Perhaps I should follow Adam's philosophy and just let things crinkle out," she replies, thoughtfully.

"Ah, sometimes the crinkling out needs a helping hand."

It's a cryptic enough response to compel Ruth to ask something she suspects she already knows the answer to. "You knew Adam, from before, didn't you, Harry? Before he joined Section D, I mean."

"Yes, I did."

She looks at him, questioningly.

"That's a story for another day."

It's clear he won't be drawn on the matter so she lets it go, but it's not forgotten.

-x-

"Where are you parked?" Ruth asks, shivering as she peers out into the night from the front doorstep.

"Up there." Harry points in the general direction of his car. "Just behind the muddy Land Rover."

"There's no need to run any checks," Ruth says, retrieving her coat from the hook near the door.

"Checks on what?" Harry asks, guilelessly.

She gives him her unmistakeable '_Don't play the innocent with me_' look but humours him. "The Land Rover, Harry. It belongs to Charlie and Debbie at number 38. They have a horse."

"I wouldn't have thought the boot was big enough," Harry deadpans.

"Funny man," she retorts. "They keep it at the stables by the Common."

"I see. Anyway," he challenges, getting back to the question he wants to ask, "what makes you think I was going to check out their car?"

She shrugs. "You're you."

Once again he wonders whether she really can read his mind. And he still can't decide whether that would be a good or bad thing.

Despite the cold, Ruth waits by the front gate until Harry drives past, returning his wave and watching the lights of his car disappear out of view. She goes to bed, warmed by a bath and malt whisky, and sleeps peacefully, dreaming of a life with Harry.

**Epilogue**

Harry collects the bottle of single malt when he collects Ruth's cats. He's not sure why, perhaps as a souvenir of better times. He doesn't drink any of it, not to begin with. It sits next to his other bottles of whisky, a silent reminder of when loving her held so much promise.

He has some on his birthday, raises the glass to her, says out loud the words she'd forbidden him from speaking on that dockside. He has some more on New Year's Eve, wishes her a Happy New Year, wherever she is; wishes he was with her.

In April, on her birthday, he doesn't get home till late. He picks up the bottle, looks at it, and then puts it down again. He takes Scarlett for a walk and tells her how much he misses Ruth. He finds the dog curled up, asleep, outside his bedroom door the next morning. She hadn't wanted him to be on his own.

The months pass. The level in the bottle goes down. His birthday comes around again and he drinks some more of the whisky. He wonders how long it'll last, dismisses the notion that when the bottle is empty, all hope of seeing her again will be gone. He makes a promise to himself; he and Ruth will finish the whisky, together.

_The End_

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Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, and to review. :)  
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